On Friday night I stayed out late. I had been drinking with some of the people from work, something I rarely did at the time. I liked to stay aloof and had earned the reputation of being unsociable and snobbish. One of my colleagues was leaving and I used the celebration as an excuse not to go home. It was a strange evening. The woman who had resigned left shortly after the speeches and presentations. Her husband arrived to help her with her flowers and gifts. The rest of the party soon fragmented and dispersed and a group of us drifted to a neighbouring bar. It was a long narrow bar, loud and crowded, with a jukebox at one end and a Karaoke stage at the other. A pall of smoke hung just below the ceiling changing colour with the lights. The place was full of middle aged men, sweating in their suits, and young women in short skirts and high heels.
‘Who are these people?’ I asked. I was wedged between the young man who worked at the desk opposite mine and the boss’s secretary who was reputed to be something of a party animal. I had overheard a rumour that they were having an affair but I had my suspicions. Sometimes at work I could feel the young man staring at me. When I looked up he would smile sheepishly, blush and turn back to his screen. He was quite good looking in an insipid, sanitary kind of way.
‘Used car dealers and off duty cops, mainly,’ he said. He must have seen me tense. ‘What’s the matter? Some dark secret from your criminal past?’ He laughed and I joined in. I was beyond caring. We took our drinks over to one of the booths that lined the wall opposite the bar. After a while the secretary got up to put her name down for the Karaoke competition. He was sitting close up next to me. Our thighs were touching. I shifted slightly but he reapplied the pressure.
‘Cheers, mate,’ he said, clinking glasses. ‘I’m glad we’re getting to know each other. We should do this again. Get on the piss, I mean. Just you and me, whaddaya reckon?.’ He slapped me on the thigh. I was already formulating the excuses in my head. I felt flattered and tempted by his naivete and his blond lashes, but my life was fucked up enough without the introduction of a new complication. And I thought of Fox. I didn’t have the fortitude to re-enact that charade. I prepared to disappear. I would go to the toilet and sneak out the side door. As I got up, a woman emerged from the crowd at the bar. She was drunk. It was Detective Inspector Savage. She lurched and steadied herself on the edge of the booth. Her chestnut hair fell across her face. She shook it back and lit a cigarette, eyeing me over the flame.
‘Hello, dear, being a good boy? Behaving yourself?’ She winked. ‘And who’s this, dear?’ She leered. ‘Who’s this little sweetheart? A new friend? Don’t let this one slip through your fingers like the one last did. But don’t worry dear, Sykes’ll be back. Sykes’ll be back and I’ll be waiting.’ She choked on her laugh and then she stubbed out her cigarette on the edge of the table and staggered back to the bar.
‘Who’s Sykes?’ said the young man.
‘Nobody,’ I said.
When I got back to the apartment all the lights were on. A cigarette butt smouldered in the ashtray on the table. There was an empty vodka bottle and a glass. The ice in the glass hadn’t melted. Under the bottle there was a piece of paper. Scrawled on the paper in capital letters were the words: MEET ME ON THE ISLAND. I could smell him. His presence was almost tangible.